


butterflies and needles line my seamed up join

by arekiras



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Other, Scars, Touch-Starved, light mentions of past (canonical) trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras
Summary: Peter Nureyev is touched starved and tender.





	butterflies and needles line my seamed up join

i. 

Peter doesn’t instigate physical contact. Underneath all of his personas (some of whom are extremely tactile, some of whom are not), Peter Nureyev himself covets his personal space, clings to it with everything he has. No one can see him, no one can touch him. It’s a price he pays for anonymity, his own self imposed prison. 

Juno’s hand lays across the table, on the other side of an impossibly wide chasm. Peter’s fingers twitch, craving touch. He thinks, with a flush of bitter surprise, that Juno was the last person to touch him in any real way. Two whole years ago, Juno was the last person to lay hands on Peter Nureyev. And now, worlds away from that time, Peter misses it. Aches for it like Juno isn’t mere inches from him. 

“Hey,” Juno says softly. 

Peter looks up from the thin scar that crosses three of Juno’s knuckles. “Hm?” Juno’s hand slides over the table toward Peter’s, resting on top of his lightly, giving him space and time to pull away. Peter stiffens, warmth crackling up his spine and into his face, but when Juno’s fingers wrap around his, skin slightly clammy, he relaxes, some invisible, hidden tension bleeding from him all at once. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Juno asks. 

Peter squeezes his hand tightly. “Nothing, really.” 

ii. 

Now that he has permission, Juno touches Peter almost constantly. Holding his hand under the table at meals, leaning against him when they’re suckered into watching streams with Rita, wrapped around him so tightly at night Peter sometimes has to push him away to breathe. 

Mostly, it’s _nice_. Nice, and a special kind of torture. No matter how close Juno gets, all Peter wants is _closer_. Closer, and farther away. Fear presses up into his throat sometimes, thoughts of _vulnerability_ and _familiarity_ chasing each other around in his head. This, this is something he couldn’t stand losing, which means he shouldn’t have it at all. 

If he lost this, if he never again felt the weight of Juno’s head on his shoulder, never timed his breaths with Juno’s as they laid in bed together and let it lull him to sleep… Well. It’s scarcely worth considering. He cannot see a Peter Nureyev after Juno Steel. Just a stark, blank nothingness stretching out in his imagination. To lose him a third time would be unbearable. 

This is not how he learned to be a thief. Unknown, unrecognized, and unattached: that is how to be a thief. In and out, barely leaving an imprint on anyone’s mind, and never leaving one that was based in fact. 

Certainly not this syrupy, clingy creature he’s become, caught up in Juno Steel’s orbit, revolving around him like a lovestruck moon. 

But, when Juno tucks his head under Peter’s chin, laying chest to chest, breath skimming across the hollow of Peter’s throat, Peter thinks that it’s entirely possible for an old dog to learn new tricks. 

iii. 

The first time Juno brushes his fingers along the white electrical burn scars dotting Peter’s arms Peter flinches away so violently he almost falls off the bed. He scrabbles against the sheets to catch himself but Juno doesn’t help, instead he has tucked his hands under his thighs and is watching Peter with a half wary look on his face. 

“Sorry,” Juno breathes, once Peter has righted himself. 

“It’s alright, they-” Peter stops himself, breathes in slowly, tries again, “I try to forget they’re there.” 

Juno runs a thumb along the bottom of his eyepatch. “It’s hard to forget, though.” 

“Yes,” Peter agrees, moving closer to Juno again. “You can touch me, still, if you want.” He hates how hopefully he says it. He’s granting permission with his words, but his tone is clearly asking _please touch me still_. Juno tugs him closer and leans them until they’re laid back against the pillows of the bed, facing each other. Juno continues the original slow movement of his hand, fingers skating around the dotted scars on Peter’s forearms while Peter tucks his face into Juno’s shoulder. 

He remembers when they were still fresh from Miasma’s machines, angry welts Juno worked hard to avoid touching (and Peter worked hard to avoid looking at) during their first night together at the hotel. They’ve healed well, but the skin is still raised and puckered. When Juno touches one on his chest, Peter thinks he can still feel the cold metal cuffs clasped around his wrists. But then Juno moves on, instead stroking the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck, and instead of Miasma’s tomb, Peter is surrounded by Juno. The smell of his laundry detergent and the slow sound of his breathing. 

“Are you alright?” Juno asks after a while. 

Peter smiles against Juno’s shoulder. “Very much so.” 


End file.
